


run

by scarsimp



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: M/M, bittersweet thought, having different fingernails, isnt it weird how he has his brothers arm, just a little reflection, plus just, ptsd and general Scar Has Trauma, seeing scars that you didnt get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarsimp/pseuds/scarsimp
Summary: Close. Release.His nails were too long, he needed to cut them soon. Were they his nails or someone else's? He didn't know. He never knew. His arm hurt.
Relationships: Miles/Scar (Fullmetal Alchemist)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	run

**Author's Note:**

> :")  
> Hc that scar is prone to forgetting tiny things like eating, or when he last did laundry, or specifics of recipes. Just trauma things

_ Close. Release.  _

He took a quick breath, closing his eyes until he saw stars and grinding his teeth in a useless pattern. His arm hurt.

_ Close. Release.  _

His nails were too long, he needed to cut them soon. Were they his nails or someone else's? He didn't know. He never knew. His arm hurt.

_ Close. Release.  _

The air here was familiar and alien all the same. He was too used to Amestris and it made something curl angrily in his gut. His arm hurt.

_ Close— _

Another stab of pain shot through his shoulder and he gasped quietly, eyes snapping up as his left hand rose to grip his right bicep. The brand of a scar stung like ants under his skin, and as he tilted his head back and held his breath the ceiling stared mockingly back down. It was sandstone and drywall. It was normal, and he couldn't quite grasp how he was sitting here in a quiet world. 

Where was the pop of gunshots in the air, or the bursts of fire screaming against sand? Silence rang out everywhere. All he had wanted was his home back but now that he had it, he couldn't recognize it. 

He kicked his leg at nothing, but it only hurt more. Sucked another gust of breath through his nose and tried not to wince when his scraped against his dry throat. He couldn't remember if he had eaten today—  _ he thought he did, but maybe that was yesterday _ — and the aftertaste of coffee burnt on his tongue. 

A question burnt along with it, branding the roof of his mouth with how useless it truly was. Why bother asking why when you already knew the answer? He closed his eyes and shuddered faintly when his arm twitched. 

The pain was nauseating, something he couldn't block out. Bloody wounds and bullets were easy if you were trained—  _ which he was, he thought balefully _ — but something dead and gone was foreign to anyone but ghosts. He almost wanted to ask up at the air and Ishvala, see if there really was a phantom clinging to his arm. Could something without a soul stay where it was no longer necessary? The thought passed with another pulse of fresh agony. 

His heart beat rapidly against his sternum and he wondered if it would come out of his throat, or if it was already moving to the marrow of his arm. 

His thoughts circled back. 

_ His _ arm. He cast a wary glance to the forced limb, tracing over the intricate tattooing and small scars. They weren't his scars. He couldn't remember when he burnt his palm against the hot iron of a pot, when he fell and scraped his elbow along the rough pebbles of a playground, when he climbed through a window and scratched along the side of his forearm. He couldn't remember his arm ever hurting so badly. It wasn't  _ his. _

Wasn't his in all but blood, now. He knew the science behind it— he wasn't the fool that small group had seen him as— knew that by now the blood was all his and the DNA was slowly changing to match, but the marrow hadn't been sitting long enough to be recycled so was it truly his? The bone had not been replaced, taken out and grown back by his own body. The nail beds were different to his own, his brother had always had square nails. He could remember it in flashes of clouded memory, broad hands holding his own smaller ones as he was led somewhere new. 

His own nails were round. It wasn't  _ his own. _

He clenched the palm into a fist and tried not to cry out when it felt like he had lost his own arm all over again. 

There has been blood in his eyes and choking him and he could hear his brother begging, pleading for him to move but he hadn't been able to. He shuddered and snapped his eyes away, back to the ceiling and away from sobbed gasps and dead bodies.

He didn't notice Miles walk in, only jerking slightly when the man spoke through the thick air. "You're pale. You forgot to eat today, didn't you?" Miles' voice was lightly scolding, and he softed partially when he looked at him and noticed the tenderness of his arm and mind. "Bad night?"

"You could say that," he could only answer. His eyes drifted the window and he felt more than heard Miles move to sit besides him. 

"You could've told me, you know. We could do something to help with it."  _ The pain _ went unspoken in the air. He wasn't a fan of speaking things into existence— something Miles' shared with him. An old Ishvalan superstition that neither had the heart to shake. It was bad luck. 

"Not as bad as it could be, I'll live." The excuse sounded hollow to his own ears, and Miles frowned. It hurt to see him unhappy, in that strange way things felt nowadays. Muted and too bright all the same, they burned like alchemy and brimstone in his chest and he felt like a damned man more than ever. 

"Just because it isn't 'the worst' doesn't mean you have to deal with it alone." Miles voice was quiet, and callused hands moved to settles over his own tensed fingers. "I—" Miles started again, before sitting up fully and looking at his face. He stopped with a sigh, instead raising his arm to weigh it like a blanket across his shoulders. 

He made a startled noise, and Miles snorted faintly. "Just let it happen." The man's voice was a soothing lull and he was too tired to argue. "S'not so bad, see?" He shifted closer and though it was hot in the too quiet house Miles was an easy warmth against his side. An arm urged him to rest his head down and the other's slow heartbeat met him halfway. "Just because you feel alone doesn't mean you always are." 

Miles' breath was warm against the shell of his ear and as he blinked through nothing but dry air he wondered if this was home. 


End file.
